Home
by BlueVase
Summary: Shelagh takes a bit of time to reflect on her new house in the middle of the night with Teddy in her arms and to comfort a scared Angela. TW: none, I think.


**Well I am back with a new fic. I've decided that it was best to do something K-rated for a change. Other people have written about Shelagh passing a bit of time alone with Teddy, but I wanted to give my take on such a situation. I haven't seen much about their new house yet, though, and thought this was a great opportunity for that as well.**

Shelagh traced the soft curve of her son's skull before pressing a kiss against his forehead.

It was well past midnight, and the house was quiet. Shelagh had found this utter silence strange at first. The flat had been old, and groaned and creaked and murmured when its inhabitants went to sleep. Their new house had not yet found its voice, and seemed to be lulled into peaceful slumber during the night.

Shelagh, heavily pregnant and restless those first few nights, had found the unfamiliar hush eerie. "It is as if this house is devoid of life, as if it doesn't have a soul," she had told Patrick.

He lay behind her, hugging her tight to his chest and caressing her swollen belly with one hand as he listened to her fears. "A house like this only becomes a living thing after a while," he said.

Shelagh shivered and pressed closer to her husband. She could feel him smile against the smooth skin of her neck.

"Don't worry, Shelagh; every home develops its own personality soon enough." His voice was heavy with sleep, and his breathing evened out before she could elaborate on her unease. She had taken his hand in his, and played with his wedding ring till sleep overtook her, too.

Now, several weeks later, the house was still hushed, but it no longer felt unfamiliar, or without a soul. Shelagh guessed that welcoming a new life within its walls had awoken something in the brick and wood. As Teddy had filled his lungs with air for the first time, and cried, the house had been startled awake.

Ever since, the quietude of the house no longer scared her, or made her uncomfortable. She didn't mind when Patrick was still out tending to patients till the early morning, like he was tonight, because her home now cradled her and kept her safe like she cradled her son. It was one small miracle in a string of other miracles.

"And I am happy with each of those," she whispered as she rocked her child, keeping him close to her chest to keep him warm. Outside, the wind howled as the fingers of winter tried to find cracks in the walls and windows to slip inside. The house wouldn't let them, and ensconced in the bedroom, Shelagh and Teddy were as toasty as could be.

Teddy's hand found the tip of her thumb and closed around it. Shelagh brought her mouth to his hand, touching his silky skin with her lips and blowing softly. Teddy's eyes, still the midnight blue of all new-borns, became half-lidded in pleasure.

"You like that, don't you?" she murmured, and smiled. She had quickly discovered that her baby liked it when she touched his hands, counting his fingers with the nails hardly larger than specks of dust, or caressing the folds of skin where his wrist turned into palm. The skin was softer than that of a flower petal, and she took as much delight in touching him as he took in being touched.

She guessed it was only natural; Teddy would take after his parents, and his parents simply loved toying with the other's hands. Patrick took delight in taking the hand of his wife in his and placing it over his heart, and she loved to feel her hand trapped between his and the scratchy fabric of his jumper, or the soft cotton of his shirt, or the skin of his chest smattered with hairs. When they made love, their hands would inevitably find each other at one point, their fingers intertwining, sometimes tangling.

Shelagh was startled out of her reverie by the pitter-patter of tiny feet in the hallway. The bedroom door opened, and Angela, clutching a stuffed bunny that she called 'Cuthbert', after hearing Timothy jokingly call it 'Cuthbert the Second', stood on the threshold. Her hair was mushed, and her eyes were wide with fear.

"Mommy?" she whispered.

"Angel girl, did something happen?" Shelagh asked, gesturing for her daughter to come in. Angela closed the door behind her and almost sprinted to the bed. Shelagh put her arm around her and drew the girl close.

"Is Teddy awake?" Angela whispered. She had already learned to keep her voice down when she was around the baby.

"Only half, I think." Shelagh looked at her son's eyelids, still half-closed in pleasure, and smiled. "He will be sleeping soon, I'd say. Now, what about you, hm? Why aren't you asleep?"

"I had a bad dream," Angela said, pressing one cheek against her mother's breast and the other against her toy. This had been happening a lot, lately. Angela was still getting used to having her own room, and sleeping without the comforting sound of another person breathing.

"Oh. That's not very nice." Shelagh pressed a kiss to Angela's head, stroking the flaxen hair.

"I was scared."

"I understand, Angel girl, but there's nothing to be scared of now."

Shelagh remembered how she herself had suffered from nightmares all throughout her childhood. She would climb out of bed, limbs trembling with fear and adrenaline, and sprint to her parent's bedroom as fast as she could. She knew that whatever thing was after her – she could never let her mind dwell on it too long, because giving it a definite shape would only make it more real –would get her if she wasn't fast enough. When she came to the bedroom door, she would always freeze for just one moment, not knowing whether to knock or look behind and see if the thing was still after her. She would always knock, and her father would inevitably wake and ask her what was wrong. He would then tell her that there was nothing to fear, and that she should not be silly. He would kiss her brow, and send her back to bed, to face whatever horror was there alone, with only the moaning of the old house to keep her company.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, absent-mindedly blowing on Teddy's hand to see him scrunch up his face in delight.

"No. What did you do with Teddy's hands?"

"Hm? Oh, I blew on them. He seems to like that, see?" Shelagh did it again. Teddy uncurled his fingers in a stuttering fashion, startling them open the way flowers open up to the sun.

"Can I try?"

"Yes."

Angela put her bunny down and gently took the hand of her baby brother in hers, then blew. Teddy sighed deeply, and Angela giggled.

"Did you do that with me when I was as small as Teddy, too?" she asked.

"No. But I did kiss all of your fingers, like this," Shelagh said. She brought Angela's little hand to her mouth, and kissed her fingertips. Her hands were so much bigger than when she had been a baby, and slightly sticky. Angela pressed her palm against her mother's.

"My hand is tiny," she said.

"Only when you compare it to mine, Angel girl. It will grow."  
"Will I have big hands like Daddy and Tim, or smaller ones, like yours?"

Shelagh felt the small twinge of unease that always accompanied statements that made her remember that Angela was not hers by blood. _But she's mine by love,_ she thought, and felt the twinge pass. "I don't know. What would you like?"  
"If I had hairy hands like Daddy that would look strange," Angela decided. She blew on Teddy's hands again, eyes gleaming with mirth as her baby brother squirmed in delight.

"But you can have big hands without the hairs."  
"Oh." Angela was silent for a little while as she contemplated this. "Well, I think I'd like to have big hands so I could play the piano," she decided. Timothy sometimes sat Angela down next to him when he played, and taught her the different names of the keys and simple melodies. Angela's hands were too small for a lot of songs yet, though.

Teddy's eyes slipped close, and soon he was sleeping. Shelagh put him down in his cot, placing her hand briefly on his chest to ensure herself of its steady rise and fall.

Angela crept on Shelagh's lap as soon as she returned to the bed and placed her arms around her neck, burying her face against the soft skin of her throat, a sure sign that she was getting tired again.

"Mommy?" she whispered.

"Yes, Angel girl?"

"Do you have bad dreams?"  
"Sometimes. Not so often, anymore." She stroked Angela's head, tracing the soft curve of her skull with her fingertips. Angela had always liked it when people stroked her scalp, even as a baby. "You know what you have to do when you're scared?" Shelagh murmured.

"Hm?"

"Just remember that this house will keep you safe, because it loves us."  
"Can houses love people?"

"Yes. Do you remember the flat? It made all kinds of noises in the night, a bit like a lullaby, because it knew you were there, and you like to be sung to sleep."

"Oh. Do you think the flat is sad now that we're gone?"

"No. There will be other people, other children, it can sing to."  
"This house doesn't sing, mommy."  
"Not yet. We're the first people to live here. It needs a bit of time to get used to us, and we to it. Why don't I take you to your room, and sing you a song, so the house can listen how it's done?" she suggested, rocking her little girl as she hovered on the edge of waking and sleeping.

"And you can kiss my hands, like you do with Teddy," Angela murmured, voice slurry with slumber.

"Yes," Shelagh said, but she didn't get up just yet. She felt content as she cuddled her little girl, and looked at her youngest son sleeping, and heard the creaking of Timothy's bed in the room down the hall as he turned over.

She hummed snatches of songs without conscious thought, and for the first time, the house groaned a little, answering her song.

She then traced the soft curve of her daughter's skull before pressing a kiss against her forehead, and smiled.


End file.
